Dear Mother,
First of all, even though it’s late, I want to wish you a happy birthday.(Mrs van Gogh celebrated her 70th birthday on September 10) Twice I started a letter that I abandoned again because my mind wasn’t on writing. (van Gogh had started a letter to his mother on September 9) How very right of you and Wil simply both to have looked for other surroundings for a while after Cor’s departure. (Willemien had been staying in Middelharnis, and Mrs van Gogh in Princenhage) There was a lot of news in your last letters, first of all the particulars about Cor’s departure, and then that you’re going to move in November; I can well understand that you’d really like to be closer to your grandchildren. But all the same it will be a strange feeling to think that none of us is left in Brabant.

I’m planning to send you a painting before long, and Wil too, I’m working on them, and certainly finished by the end of the month. Although it may take another fortnight before they’re dry enough to send. (the end of September, Van Gogh had finished five canvases for his mother and Willemien: Wheatfield and cypresses, an unknown painting of an olive grove, Reaper, The bedroom and Self-portrait with clean-shaven face. Around October 21 he added two more – Field with a ploughman and a painting of an orchard in blossom – and sent the whole consignment to Theo in December)

These last few weeks I’ve been perfectly well as far as my health goes, and I work almost without stopping from morning till night, day after day, and I lock myself up in the studio to have no distractions. So it continues to be a great comfort to me that the work is progressing rather than going backwards, and I do it with perfect calm, and my thoughts in this respect are entirely clear and self-assured.
And so compared with others here, who can’t do anything, I certainly have no reason to complain.

The other day I wrote to Theo that I’d like to be not so far from Paris for a while, and probably something will come of it. Not that I’m unwilling to sacrifice my freedom so as to be less of a burden to others if it gets too bad, but at the moment it comes down to much the same thing. And among artists there are so many who, despite nervous diseases — or seizures from time to time — nevertheless go their own way, and in the life of the painter it is, it seems, not enough to make paintings but one must also not let one’s relations with other painters be harmed.

My health is so good between times and my stomach so much better than before that I believe it could still be years before I become completely unfit, which I initially feared would be the case immediately. I’m afraid that I’ll again notice in time that tomorrow always comes when one is dealing with illness. But there doesn’t appear to be any rule to it, and the doctor (Théophile Peyron) repeated to me many times that one can say nothing about it in advance. But when one knows that it’s a malady that persists you’ll be able to understand that although one is completely overcome at first, one starts to get used to the idea and then considers what one can still do anyway. And that could still turn out better than expected.

At first I was so despondent that I even lost the desire to see friends again and to work — now at the moment the need for those two things is beginning to act and, added to that, appetite and health are perfectly good between times. And so I really hanker for Theo and his wife, whom I haven’t even seen yet, and am interested in everything. And when I think that now there’s no need to seek new friends, then I think all the more about present and former friends. All the same, I understand that I may not go into this too deeply, since it might have to be arranged so very differently from what I sometimes imagine, and besides I’m not disposed towards any particular desire.

Only I’m anything but courageous in distress and anything but patient when I’m not well, although I do have a fairly solid measure of patience to keep at my work. But that’s literally all. As often as I get the opportunity, I work on portraits that I sometimes think myself are more serious and better than the rest of my work.(Shortly before this, van Gogh had painted two self-portraits and the Charles-Elzéard Trabuc. At the time of writing, he was working on Jeanne Trabuc.) And if it might be that my condition permits me to go back to Paris again, or in the vicinity, that will become the main thing for me.

And now I bid you goodbye for today, I beg your pardon for not writing before, and I hope to send you the paintings I’m making for you before long. Embraced in thought.

Your loving
Vincent

"You must persevere – you must go onward – as I must, too – we’re going through the same ordeal in many respects." wrote Vincent to his brother Theo OnThisDay in 1877

"there is scarcely one letter by van Gogh which I, who am certainly no expert, do not find fascinating." - The poet W.H. Auden. Yes, I agree!

Be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thine heart.. (Ps. 27:14) Behold, Satan hath desired to have our soul, that he may sift us as wheat. (Luke 22:31) And the end shall not be yet. (Mark 13:7)

1 Cor XI:23. For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, that the Lord Jesus the same night in which He was betrayed took bread: and when He had given thanks, He brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of Me. After the same manner also He took the cup, when He had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in My blood, which is shed for you for the remission of sins,(Matthew 26:28 )this do ye, as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, in remembrance of Me, and do shew the Lord’s death till he come. (1 Cor. 11:23-26)

Luke XXII. And He came out, and went, as He was wont, to the mount of Olives; and His disciples also followed Him. And when He was at the place, He said unto them, Pray that ye enter not into temptation. And he was withdrawn from them about a stone’s cast, and kneeled down, and prayed, saying, Father! if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me! nevertheless not My will, but Thy will, be done. And there appeared an angel unto Him, strengthening Him. And being in an agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground. And when He rose up from prayer, and was come to His disciples, He found them sleeping for sorrow.(Luke 22:39-45)

Then Pilate questioned Him in many words,(Luke 23:9) but He answered him nothing. And Pilate saith, Knowest Thou not that I have power to crucify Thee, and have power to release Thee? And Jesus answered, Thou couldest have no power at all against Me, except it were given thee from Above. (John 19:9-11)

Then came Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns, and the purple robe. And Pilate saith unto them, Behold the man. (John 19:5)
"It is with the reading of books the same as with looking at pictures; one must, without doubt, without hesitations, with assurance, admire what is beautiful.”
― Vincent van Gogh

Here's an interesting letter, Alessandro, that Paul Gauguin wrote to Vincent van Gogh, Date: Paris, between Tuesday, 8 and Wednesday, January 16, 1889.

[The letter has no salutation]
your sunflowers on a yellow background (Sunflowers in a vase) which I regard as a perfect page of an essential ‘Vincent’ style. At your brother’s home I saw your Sower, (Sower with setting sun) which is very good, as well as a yellow still life, apples and lemons. (Quinces, lemons, pears and grapes) Your brother gave me a lithographed reproduction of an old painting of yours, Dutch – very interesting as regards color in the drawing. (The lithograph The potato eaters) In my studio (On January 5 Gauguin had rented a studio at 16 rue Saint-Gothard) next to your portrait. (Self-portrait)

The grape harvests (Regarding Gauguin’s Human miseries) are totally covered in scales as a result of the white which has separated. I’ve stuck all of it back down using a process shown to me by the reliner. (The identity of this reliner is not known. This could refer to Contet, who in 1886 had taken over the business of Mrs Latouche; in any case, Gauguin had canvases relined there in 1883) If I tell you about it it’s because the thing is easy to do and can be very good for those of your canvases that need retouching – you stick newspapers on your canvas with flour paste. Once dry, you put your canvas on a smooth board and with very hot irons you press down hard on it. All the breaks in your color will remain but will be flattened down and you’ll have a very fine surface. Afterwards you soak your paper covering well and take off all the paper. That’s largely the whole secret of relining.

Thank Roulin for thinking of me. I have indeed received my stretcher keys (It is possible that with ‘clefs’ Gauguin meant the wedges used to tension a stretcher, but he could also have meant the stretchers themselves 'chassis à clefs’) - at the next opportunity if you can send me by parcel post my 2 fencing masks and gloves,(Gauguin practiced fencing and had given fencing lessons in Pont-Aven. In Avant et après he writes in detail on the art of fencing, boasting about his talent for it) which I left on the shelf in the little upstairs room.
Friendly wishes from me to everyone.

Cordially yours,
Paul Gauguin

At Mr Schuffenecker’s
29 rue Boulard –

“I dream my painting and I paint my dream.”
―Vincent van Gogh

"It is not living that matters, but living rightly."
―Socrates

"When an actor comes to me and wants to discuss his character, I say, 'It's in the script.' If he says, 'But what's my motivation?, ' I say, 'Your salary.'
―Alfred Hitchcock

Joseph Ginoux is the man who ran the establishment "Café de la Gare" which was the subject of van Gogh's "Night Café" painting. van Gogh also made several portraits of he and his wife. He was also one of the people who signed the petition to have van Gogh committed. He was the fifth witness for the prosecution cross-examined by the French Police. Yet, a few days before the petition Ginoux had told Pastor Salles that Vincent drank with moderation- just the opposite of what was said in the petition… either he was an incorrigible hypocrite, or an impressionable personality? Who knows. Apparently, van Gogh never knew, or so it seemed, about his betrayal.

Arles, May 31, 1889.

Dear Mr Vincent,
We were very pleased to learn that you are doing well and that the air of St-Rémy has done you good.
We understand that you are feeling well, and that the surroundings of your new residence, which is only temporary, will distract you and provide subjects for your art. I have had a fine frame made as we had agreed, in walnut and impeccable, and cI delivered it to the bursar.

(Note: Because Ginoux says that he has delivered the frame to the hospital bursar, it is not likely that this frame was intended for one of the paintings still in Arles, since these were being stored at Ginoux’s. It is more reasonable to assume that the frame was made for a work that van Gogh had given to his doctor, Félix Rey. Rey, at any rate, is the only hospital employee known to have received work from van Gogh. He owned his portrait, Félix Rey According to Rey, he was also given the ‘Spitalgarten’ (hospital garden) presumably The courtyard of the hospital in Arles and the ‘Krankenstube mit dem Selbstbildnis des Malers’ (patients’ sitting room with a self-portrait of the painter) this probably refers to Ward in the hospital though this painting was never in his possession. It was previously assumed that the frame was intended for Avenue of chestnut trees in blossom but that was stored at Ginoux’s and subsequently rolled up and sent to Theo)

I have told everyone who knows you how you are, and everyone was glad to learn that you are in good health, and we hope to have the pleasure of seeing you soon, in anticipation of which Mrs Ginoux and I send you our best regards.

Joseph Ginoux.

"Conscience is a man's compass."
―Vincent van Gogh

"It is necessary to keep one's compass in one's eyes and not in the hand, for the hands execute, but the eye judges."
―Michelangelo

"The gratification comes in the doing, not in the results."
―James Dean

My dear friends Mr and Mrs Ginoux,
I don’t know if you’ll remember, I find it quite strange, that about a year ago Mrs Ginoux was ill at the same time as I was; (she had the flu, and was also suffering from nervousness and menopausal complaints. van Gogh had visited her on January 18 or 19) and now it has been so again since – just around Christmas – for a few days I was again taken quite badly this year, however it was over very quickly; I had it less than a week. Since, therefore, my dear friends, we sometimes suffer together, it makes me think of what Mrs Ginoux said – ‘when people are friends they’re that way for a long time’.

I myself believe that the annoyances one experiences in the ordinary routine of life do us at least as much good as bad. The thing that makes one fall ill, overcome by discouragement, today, that same thing gives us the energy, once the illness is over, to get up and want to recover the next day.

I can assure you that the other year it almost vexed me to recover my health – to be better for a longer or shorter time – continuing always to fear relapses – almost vexed – I tell you – so little desire did I have to begin again. I’ve very often told myself that I’d prefer that there be nothing more and that it was over. Well yes – we’re not the master of that – of our existence, and it’s a matter, seemingly, of learning to want to live on, even when suffering. Ah, I feel so cowardly in that respect, even as my health returns. I still fear. So who am I to encourage others, you’ll rightly say to me, it hardly suits me.

Anyway, it’s only to say to you, my dear friends, that I hope so ardently, and that moreover I dare hope, that Mrs Ginoux’s illness will be very fleeting and that she’ll recover from it entirely enlivened. But she isn’t unaware how fond we all are of her and wish to see her well.
As for me, illness has done me good – it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge that; it has calmed me, and I’ve had more luck this year than I had dared hope for, quite unlike what I had imagined.

But if I hadn’t been so well cared for, if people hadn’t been as kind to me as they have been, I think I would have pegged out or that I would have completely lost my reason.
Business is business, then duty too is duty, so it’s only right that I soon return for a while to see my brother. But it will be hard for me to leave the south, I can assure all of you who have become friends to me – friends for a long time.

I’ve forgotten again to thank you for the olives you sent me the other time and which were excellent, I’ll bring you back the boxes soon.
I’m therefore writing to you, dear friends, to try to distract for a moment our dear patient so that she can resume her habitual smile, to please all of us who know her. As I’ve told you, in a fortnight I hope to come and see you again, quite cured.

Illnesses are there to make us remember again that we aren’t made of wood. That’s what seems the good side of all this to me. Then afterwards one goes back to one’s everyday work less fearful of the annoyances, with a new store of serenity. And even if we part, it will be while yet saying to oneself again: ‘and when people are friends they’re that way for a long time’ – for that is the means to be able to leave one another.
Well, more soon, and my best wishes for Mrs Ginoux’s speedy recovery. Believe me.

Yours truly,
Vincent.

Poor van Gogh! he had no idea what a couple of phony backstabbers his two "dear friends" really were, particularly the husband, who, as I explained yesterday, was one of the people who signed the petition to have Vincent committed.
Oh well! "That's life I tell ya, I can't deny it" ―Frank Sinatra.

"Be of good heart.”
― Vincent van Gogh

"In doing what we ought we deserve no praise, because it is our duty."
―Sant'Agostino

Alright Alessandro, in this letter, Mrs Ginoux is replying to the two letters van Gogh sent her. She speaks of: how her husband, Joseph "backstabber" Ginoux, has been ill and how a "bullock"( a young bull) butted him in the ribs and the great pain he suffered. Hmmm.

Mr Vincent
I am replying to your two letters, if we have delayed so long it is that my husband has been ill, he had a little accident, he had some friends, as chance had it they were present at the arrival of the bullocks, and the bullock butted him in the ribs, he could not walk, it gave him great pain, as for me I am much better, but I am still very tired, I cannot do anything. On Saturday he will send what you ask of us. (van Gogh had asked the Ginouxs to send to Auvers the furniture he had stored with them in Arles. He confirmed receipt of it in another letter written on or about July 10)
He is much better, he can start to work in a few days, we would really have wanted to see you before leaving, we really regretted that you did not come here to Arles.

You have compliments from all the neighbours. Mrs Bressy says they will go and see you for a day or two in Paris.

Nothing else for the moment, give us news of yourself sometimes, you will give us great pleasure, we shall not remain so long in giving you a reply.
I shall end, my husband joins with me in shaking your hand in our hearts and in friendship.

Mrs Ginoux

On Saturday he will send you your things to your address which you sent us.
"The lamps are burning and the starry sky is over it all.”
― Vincent van Gogh

"For what shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his soul?"
―Jesus Christ

"The truth of things is the chief nutriment of superior intellects."
―Leonardo da Vinci

My dear friends Mr and Mrs Ginoux,
I want to reply straightaway to Mrs Ginoux’s letter to say that I was really pleased to have news of you. I really regret that Mr Ginoux has been injured and has suffered so much. Please have my things packed up by someone else so that he doesn’t wear himself out with it; I’ll gladly reimburse you for all the expenses you may have, but he mustn’t tire himself too much, for fear that his wound may open up. But in this way I’m counting on you sending on Saturday, for I’m awaiting it.

Yes, I too really regretted not being able to come back to Arles to take my leave of you all. For you well know that I had grown attached to people and things there with you with a sincere friendship. But in the final days I was more catching the illness of the others than curing my own, the society of the other patients influenced me badly, and in the end I no longer understood anything about it. Then I felt that it was better to try a change, and anyway the pleasure of seeing my brother, his family and our painter friends again has done me good up till now, and I feel absolutely calm and in a normal state. The doctor here says that one must throw oneself fully into work and distract oneself in that way.
The latter knows a lot about painting, and likes mine very much, he encourages me a great deal, and two three times a week he comes to spend a few hours with me to see what I’m doing.

They have twice written an article about my paintings, once in a Paris newspaper and the other time in Brussels, where I had exhibited,(van Gogh is referring to Aurier’s article ‘Les isolés: Vincent van Gogh’, which appeared not only in Mercure de France but also in the Belgian magazine L’Art Moderne.) and now, lately, again in a newspaper of my own country, Holland, and that means that a lot of people have been to see my paintings and that I’ve sold on better terms. (Anna Boch had bought The red vineyard) And it isn’t over. It’s anyway certain that since I stopped drinking ( Adeline Ravoux recalled about van Gogh: ‘He never drank alcohol’.) I’ve done better work than before, there’s still that which has been gained.
But I still often think of you all, one can’t do as one wants in life, one must leave the place one feels most attached to – but the memories remain and one remembers – obscurely as in a mirror(van Gogh is quoting 1 Cor. 13:12.) - absent friends.

In this way there can’t be any mistakes. And I thank you in advance for your trouble, but let Ginoux get a man to do the packing and not wear himself out. I shall reimburse you the costs.
Wishing you good health and complete recovery, most cordial greetings.

Vincent van Gogh.
"As we advance in life it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties the inmost strength of the heart is developed."
― Vincent van Gogh

"Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people will find a way around the laws."
―Plato

"An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie, for an excuse is a lie guarded."
―Pope John Paul II

At sunset all the forest seems as though
In contemplation; clumps of russet oaks,
Small junipers, sparse holly bushes,
And not a leaf doth tremble in the light.

The only sound, a bird, belated toiler
In the distant stand of ancient chestnut trees;
Across the mighty, peaceful woods we hear
The yaffle, with his bill’s staccato hammering.

Strange bird, familiar to this man who passes by
In sunset’s pure, calm glimmering.
’Tis not an old man, feet dragging as he goes,
His back bent low, drawn on weary legs.
’Tis is a rude fellow from the forest comes,
Laden with dead wood. His stride is long and firm,
He’s seen the sun, like a great orange in the sky,
That yonder sinks into the grass and disappears.

Cheerfully he goes; pondering in his inmost heart
Some source of happiness – into the clear, cold sky
Rises a plume of smoke, a long, straight plume.
His old mask, rugged and weather-worn, lights up.

Night may have fallen by the time he gains
That fold of ground where the horizon ends,
But on his back he has a goodly beech-wood fire,
To brighten every corner of the house.

There, beneath a mossy roof, door and window closed
At bedtime, his children with delight
Will open wide their eyes, dazzled by the flames,
When off their small pink feet he takes the shoes.

A. Lemoyne

Lastly, I leave you, Alessandro, with the whimsical and humorous lyrics of Dean Martins "Mambo Italiano" where a number of Italian words are deliberately misspelled, others are in Italo-English slang and one word, tiavanna, is invented.
(A boy went back to Napoli because he missed the scenery)
(The native dances and the charming songs)
(But wait a minute something's wrong)
('cause now it's)Hey mambo, mambo Italiano hey hey mambo mambo Italiano
Go go go you mixed up Siciliano
All you Calabrese do the mambo like-a crazy with the
Hey mambo don't wanna tarantella
Hey mambo no more mozzarella
Hey mambo mambo Italiano try an enchilada with a fish baccala
Hey goomba I love how you dance the rumba
But take some advice paisano learn-a how to mambo
If you're gonna be a square you ain't-a gonna go nowhere
Hey mambo mambo Italiano hey hey mambo mambo Italiano
Go go Joe shake like a tiavanna
E lo che se dice you get happy in the pizza when you
Mambo Italiano

Hey chadrool you don't-a have to go to school
Just make it with a big bambino
It's like vino
Kid you good-a looking but you don't-a know what's cooking 'til you
Hey mambo mambo Italiano
Hey hey mambo mambo Italiano
Ho ho ho you mixed up Siciliano
E lo che se dice you get happy in the pizza when you
Mambo Italiano

"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything."
―Mark Twain

In this letter, Alessandro, that van Gogh sent to his brother, he speaks of: work, some of his paintings, his health, Dr. Peyron, Egyptian artists, Impressionists, paintings that intrigue him and the colors of paint that he's really in need of.

My dear Theo,
Thanks very much for the consignment of canvases, colors, brushes, tobacco and chocolate, which reached me in good order. I was very glad of it, for I was pining for work a little. Also, for a few days now I’ve been going outside to work in the neighbourhood. (Note: In previous letters, van Gogh had ordered canvas and paint, and he had asked for brushes and more canvas. Theo’s account book records under ‘Account Vincent’ on June 6, 1889 a payment of 197 francs to Tasset & Lhote, probably for the order mentioned here.)

Your last letter was dated May 21, if I remember rightly. I’ve had no news of you yet since then, except that Mr Peyron told me he’d received a letter from you. (Note: Theo had written to Peyron on May 23) I hope that you’re in good health, and your wife too. Mr Peyron intends to go to Paris to see the exhibition and then pay you a visit. (Note: The 1889 World Exhibition was held in Paris from May 5 to November 5. Dr Peyron visited Theo in the second half of September 1889)

What can I tell you that’s new, not much. I have two landscapes on the go (no. 30 canvases) of views taken in the hills. (Note: van Gogh describes one of these canvases immediately after this he says it depicts the view from his room, so the ‘view taken in the hills’ must refer to the other landscape. This was the underlying depiction of Ravine which he copied in late June or early July in the drawing Wild vegetation. In this landscape he did what he had recently resolved to do: paint the color effects of the flowers in the fields. At the beginning of October he painted over it) One is the countryside that I glimpse from the window of my bedroom. In the foreground a field of wheat, ravaged and knocked to the ground after a storm. A boundary wall and beyond, grey foliage of a few olive trees, huts and hills. Finally, at the top of the painting a large white and grey cloud swamped by the azure. (Wheatfield after a storm) It’s a landscape of extreme simplicity — in terms of coloration as well. It would be suitable as a pendant to that study of the bedroom that’s damaged.

When the thing depicted is stylistically absolutely in agreement and at one with the manner of depiction, isn’t that what creates the quality of a piece of art?
That’s why, as regards painting, a household loaf is above all good when it’s painted by Chardin. (Note: Chardin often depicted loaves of bread in his still lifes and genre pieces. van Gogh probably knew The purveyor, 1739, and The brioche, 1763 from the Louvre) Now Egyptian art, for example, what makes it extraordinary, is it not that those calm, serene kings, wise and gentle, patient, good, seem unable to be other than they are; eternally farmers who worship the sun. How I’d have liked to see an Egyptian house in the exhibition, built by the architect Jules Garnier – painted in red, yellow and blue with a garden divided regularly into beds by rows of bricks – the dwelling of the people we know only in the state of mummies or in granite.

But there you are, to get back to the point, since the Egyptian artists thus have a faith, working from feeling and instinct, they express all these intangible things: goodness, infinite patience, wisdom, serenity, with a few masterly curves and marvellous proportions. That’s to say once more, when the thing depicted and the manner of depicting it are in accord, the thing has style and quality.
Thus also the servant girl in Leys’s great fresco, when she’s engraved by Braquemond, becomes a new work of art – or Meissonier’s little reader when it’s Jacquemart who engraves him – since the manner of engraving and the thing depicted are as one.

As I want to keep this study of the bedroom, if you would send it back to me when I’m sent canvas, rolled up, I’ll repaint it. Initially I’d wanted to have it lined because I didn’t think I’d be able to do it again. However, as my mind has grown calmer since, I can indeed redo it now. The thing is, among the number of things that one makes there are always some that one has felt or wanted more and which one wants to keep all the same.

When I see a painting that intrigues me, I can never help asking myself, ‘in what house, room, corner of the room, in whose home would it do well, would it be in its rightful place’. Thus the paintings of Hals, Rembrandt, Vermeer are only at home in the old Dutch house.

Now the Impressionists – once again, if an interior isn’t complete without a work of art, neither is a painting if it isn’t at one with original surroundings, resulting from the era in which it was produced. And I don’t know if the Impressionists are worth more than their time, or rather aren’t yet worth as much. In a word, are there souls and interiors of houses that are more important than what has been expressed by painting, I’m inclined to believe so.

I’ve seen an advertisement for a forthcoming exhibition of Impressionists called Gauguin, Bernard, Anquetin and other names.

(Note: On the occasion of the World Exhibition, the ‘Groupe Impressionniste et Synthétiste’, with Gauguin as its leader, held an exhibition from June 8 through October 1889 in the Café Volpini, situated next to the Palais du Champs de Mars, where the official exhibition took place. A total of 94 works were on display: 17 by Gauguin, 20 by Schuffenecker, 23 by Bernard, 10 by Laval, 7 by Anquetin, 7 by Louis Roy, 5 by Léon Fauché, 3 by Georges-Daniel de Monfreid and 2 by Ludovic Nemo (Bernard’s pseudonym). Theo had been approached to exhibit work by Vincent, but declined because he disapproved of the way the exhibition was organized.)

Am therefore inclined to believe that another new sect has been formed, no less infallible than the others that already exist. Was this the exhibition you were talking to me about? What storms in teacups.
I’m in good health – so-so, I feel happier with my work here than I could outside. By staying here a fairly long time, I’ll have acquired controlled behaviour, and in the long run the result will be more order in my life and less impressionability.

And that would be something gained. Besides, I wouldn’t have the courage to begin again outside. I once went into the village — accompanied, at that. The mere sight of the people and things had an effect on me as if I was going to faint, and I felt very ill. In the face of nature it’s the feeling for work that keeps me going. But anyway, that’s to tell you that there must have been some over-strong emotion inside me that brought that about, and I have no idea what could have caused it.

I’m bored to death at times after work, and yet I have no desire to begin again.
The doctor who has just come by says that he won’t be going to Paris for a few weeks yet, so don’t expect his visit for the time being.
I hope that you’ll write to me soon.

It’s funny that every time I try to reason with myself in order to get a clear picture of things – why I came here, and that after all it’s only an accident like any other – a terrible terror and horror seizes me and prevents me from thinking. It’s true that it tends vaguely to diminish, but it also seems to me to prove that there is indeed something, I don’t know what, disturbed in my brain. But it’s astounding to be afraid of nothing like this, and not to be able to remember.

Only you can count on the fact that I’m doing everything I can to become active and perhaps useful again, in this sense at least, that I want to do better paintings than before. Many things in the landscape here often recall Ruisdael, but the figure of the ploughman is lacking. In our country one sees men, women, children, animals at work everywhere and at all times of the year, and here not a third of that, and in addition they’re not the honest workers of the north. They seem to work the land in an awkward, lax way, without energy. Perhaps I’ve got hold of the wrong idea here, I hope so at least, since I’m not from round here. But it makes things colder than one would dare think from reading Tartarin, who had perhaps been expelled many years ago with his entire family.

Above all write to me soon, for your letter is very slow in coming, I hope that you’re well. It’s a great consolation for me to know that you’re no longer living alone.
If one month or another it should be too difficult for you to send me colors, canvas &c., then don’t send them, for believe me it’s better to live than to do art in an absent-minded way. And before everything else, your house must be neither sad nor dismal. That first and painting next.

Then I feel tempted to begin again with the simpler colors, the ochres for example.
Is a Van Goyen ugly because it’s painted all in oils with very little neutral color, or a Michel? My undergrowth with ivy is completely finished,(Note: He's referring to "Trees with ivy in the garden of the asylum") I want very much to send it to you immediately, as soon as it’s dry enough to be rolled up.

With a really strong handshake to you and your wife.

Ever yours,
Vincent

"Paintings have a life of their own that derives from the painter's soul."
―Vincent van Gogh